The steps going up to the second floor lead up from the front hallway and as the banister descends it ends at this newel post. For years, back before payments were automated on credit cards, the newspaper carrier would come by weekly to collect payment. One of my parents would pay him and in turn he'd give them a receipt from a tear sheet. Every rectangle they got represented a week's payment. Sometimes they'd pay for two weeks; sometimes four. Then they'd take their tiny little rectangles, each one only about a centimeter by a centimeter-and-a-half wide, and leave them absentmindedly on top of the newel post.
See that tiny gap between the cap of the newel post and the molding? It was just wide enough to push a newspaper receipt through, and don't ask me why, but I was compelled to push them in every time I found them lying there. It's not unlike putting a quarter in a gumball machine; pushing it through satisfies the tactile need for fulfilling a perfect fit.
You don't mess with destiny, and destiny said those newspaper receipts needed to live inside the newel post.
I was not an impish child. Why do you ask?